Like Oil and Water
by Wofl
Summary: Dean can't sing. Sam hates Tolkien. None of this leads to a logical conclusion. But it is damn fun. Wincest. agressive!Dean. Mature for content.


Sam wakes unwilling and annoyed. He can barely hear the hiss of the shower beyond Dean's horrific chortling. Singing. He's fucking _singing_.

_Fuck you, Dean,_ he thinks, and isn't coherent enough to think beyond that. Sam's tired, he's cranky. Who can blame him? First sleep in three days. Passed out, is more like it. Didn't even mean to, really. He just sat down to do some research, and sleep just sort of manages to find him. He's been playing tag with sleep for a long time now, and Sam's wearing thin.

Bone weary and every minute he can grab is a miracle unto itself. A few hours is really as much as he can usually dare hope for.

For such an elusive state to be interrupted in such a way. It's just rude, that's what. Honestly, his brother has no common courtesy whatsoever. And, oh yeah, apparently, he's tone deaf. Really, those raven-throated chortles can't even begin to pose as music.

Sam rubs his eyes, blinking blearily around the room. Yup, those are definitely to words to _Ramble On_. But no _way_ are those the right notes. And, yeah, perfect, _exactly_ what Sam wants to wake up to. A goddamn rock ballad of Middle fucking Earth.

Sam thinks Tolkien is a load of tripe on a good day, a pretentious sack of crappy prose on the days he isn't feeling charitable, ranking only slightly higher than Steven King and just below Charles Dickens on Sam's list of _Authors Who Really Shouldn't Be as Popular as They Are 'Cause They Fucking Suck_ list. Not that he's keeping track. Heh.

Fucking _Zeppelin_.

"Dean," Sam calls out, barely a croak. Dean doesn't hear him; obviously, from the way he keeps howling away and Sam groans. He tries to sit up, he really does, but he can feel the sleep in his bones, tugging at his entire body like an anchor condemning a leaking ship. Sam can feel himself being dragged down, down back towards unconsciousness. Just as he thinks he'll manage to go back to sleep _despite_ the discord filtering out from the bathroom, Dean hits a note that turns sour like milk left in the sun and Sam's awake again, and cursing.

"Shut the fuck up, Dean," he yells, much louder this time, voice edged with grumpy exasperation. "'m trying to sleep."

Nope. Nothing, no response whatsoever. Dean launches back into the chorus, God, Sam can even hear the gurgle as Dean catches a mouthful of water and doesn't miss a beat. Shit.

Sam growls, low and feral. He's sleep-deprived and irritable and it takes exactly five more seconds before he's hauling himself out of bed, teeth grinding and footsteps heavy as he crosses the room.

The door's not even closed properly, hanging open a crack and no wonder it sounded so loud. He shoves it the rest of the way open with no preamble and stalks across the cold bathroom tiles, slamming one huge palm against the glass door of the shower. Something deep and spiteful inside of him burns triumphantly when Dean visibly jumps and the words fall away into abrupt, brief silence.

"The fuck, Sammy?" Dean asks angrily, voice terse and gruff as he turns away hastily. Sam can see his brother's outline, head cast over his shoulder to stare at Sam wide-eyed and slightly puzzled. "Thought you were sleeping?"

"I _was_," Sam snaps, wrenching the door open so he can glare pointedly. He realizes his mistake in seconds. Because oh wow, Dean is _right there_; a foot away and water cascading down over his shoulders, dripping down the smooth expanse of his exposed back. Suddenly, Sam's not quite so tired anymore and really, he definitely should not be thinking about that because it's the principal of the thing, dammit.

"What?" Dean asks, doe-eyed innocence. Crocodile tears. Dean knows _exactly_ what. Sam knows it. Dean knows Sam knows it. Sam knows Dean knows Sam knows it. And so on and so forth and it still doesn't change the facts.

"You sound like a dying cow, man," Sam growls, forcing his eyes up and away from Dean's ass. He fixes his brother with an unimpressed glare, yawning pointedly to punctuate his argument.

"Oh, was I being too loud?"

If Sam didn't know better, he'd swear he sees a mischievous glint in Dean's eye at the words. Like he knows exactly how loud he was being and Sam gets a sudden feeling that it was no accident that the door had been left open. Mordor. Jesus Christ.

It suddenly occurs to Sam that Dean is acting like he's hiding something. His back is still turned to Sam, hands hidden in front of him, fumbling with something Sam can't see, and then Dean rocks his hips and... _oh_.

_Ohhh._

"You sneaky bastard," Sam grits out, one hand darting forward to latch onto Dean's shoulder. He tugs sharply and Dean nearly loses his footing on the water-slick bottom of the shower and he turns,giving Sam a good view of...

_Whew._

The temperature jumps about ten degrees at least. Sam's sure of it. No other possible explanation.

"It worked, didn't it?" Dean asks, a lazy smile curling up at the corners of his lips. He draws one hand up the length of his impressive erection, thumb flicking rough and sure over the head and he makes a noise in the back of his throat, eyes still fixed on Sam.

"Selfish son of a--" And the rest doesn't matter, not really because Sam shoves his way into the shower, clothes and all. He pins Dean up against the side of the stall and kisses his brother hard and fast. His clothes are drenched, clinging to his body in a way that is almost suffocating, and his hair is sopping and straggling down into his eyes. He doesn't care about any of it. He's too busy tasting Dean's mouth, hot and slick against his, his fingers clinging tightly to Dean's shoulders.

They almost slip again when Dean swings them around, slams Sam back against the opposite wall so the spray is no longer in his face. He presses tight up against Sam, pinning him effectively. "It's better than if I were to molest you in your sleep, isn't it? Cause believe me, I was about to."

"Pervert." Sam huffs out a breath. "I knew you could sing better than that."

"I have the voice of an angel." Smirk.

"God must have some pretty low standards for his choir." Counter-smirk.

"Shut up, bitch." Assertion of authority utilizing insulting pet names.

"Why don't you make me, jerk?" Invitation. Pure and simple.

Who is Dean to turn down a challenge when he's offered one? At least that's what Sam's counting on.

And his brother is rarely one to disappoint. Sam meets Dean's enthusiasm with plenty of his own. They kiss rough and painful, more teeth than tongue, but that's the way Sam likes it, and if Dean's going to pull him out of sleep for sex, then Sam's not going to settle for less.

He bites at Dean's lip, coaxing, egging his brother on, pulling at his wrists where Dean has him pinned, but not really trying to get away, just enough to draw out the rough, feral side of Dean - the one that takes pleasure making Sam gasp and shudder. He struggles again and Dean slams him back against the wall.

Yeah, there it is.

Dean _snarls_, biting Sam's collarbone hard, possessive, marking Sam as his own, even though it's a secret that will die with them. Theirs and theirs alone, and all the better because of it.

Dean bites him again, on the throat this time, pulling a sharp gasp out of Sam and he arches up against his brother, toes curling to keep him from slipping on the water-slick bottom of the shower. He grinds against Dean, reminding him that he's still clothed, that the denim of his pants are becoming tight and uncomfortable. He'd take them off, but he's managed to awaken a monster in his brother, and he's not playing around anymore.

Sam couldn't free himself if he tried, so tight is Dean's grip on him; tight enough to leave bruises. All Sam can think is _fuck, yes_.

Dean ruts up against him and _good God_, is the friction nice. Sam goes slack in Dean's grip, surrendering control and Dean rocks back, flips Sam around in one swift, easy motion. Then it's face, meet wall, and Sam feels his pants being yanked down to his knees. Then, his hands being wrenched behind his back, Dean's fingers as good as steel around his wrists. His breath comes hard and fast as Dean shifts his grip until he's holding Sam's arms with just one hand and the other is doing something Sam can't see.

And then. And then and then and then. Sam can't think for a minute, that's what. Then the world is reduced to Dean's slick, blunt fingers, solid and sure, pushing into Sam. He rocks back against them, wanton and shameless. "Fuck, yeah," he tells Dean, and tugs at his wrists again, just to remind himself of that power that he's relinquished to him.

The grip around his wrists tightens instinctively, and Dean adds another finger, stroking Sam from the inside, rubbing against his prostate until he's sure he'll burst, moans more like sobs, now. He needs to come. Needs it like he needs air. He' wrecked and shaking and Dean has no pity, is a heartless son of a bitch because he _still_ doesn't let go of Sam's hands, won't touch his cock. No relief in sight and fuck if Dean isn't adding a _fourth_ finger.

"Dean," Sam manages, strangled and begging. He turns his face, pressing his forehead hard against the damp wall of the shower. "God, Dean, just do it already."

"You forgot the magic word." Teeth, thirsty and sharp, dig into the back of Sam neck and he's keening in the back of his throat. Controlling bastard, Sam thinks. Dean loves to hear him beg, loves for Sam to be desperate and needy beneath him. Sam's always followed Dean and that's just the way it's gotta be. Big brother puts little brother in his place and that's acceptable. That's the way it's _always_ been.

And fuck if Sam's not above begging a little. Anything if it means relief. "Please, Dean."

He can almost hear the unspoken _attaboy_. He's heard it so many times before. Dean, pushing Sam to his limits, but always encouraging, always ready with praise. The fingers in his ass slip free and Sam doesn't even have time to mourn the loss before there's pressure again, pressing inside, thicker, this time. Dean's cock slides home and his newly freed hand slides around Sam's hip and circles his neglected cock.

Sam finds himself, for the first time, truly struggling against Dean's grip, twisting his hands frantically, because it's not hard enough, not fast enough, not tight enough, and Sam _needs_ it. Fuck, does he need it. He wants to touch and he can't because Dean won't let him. Dean's holding fast and grunting as he fucks into Sam. The younger's ass clenches hard around Dean's dick, and he bucks into Dean's fist; moans in anguish when it's simply not enough.

For a few desperate, long minutes, that's all there is. Sam's hands are trapped and he's so close to coming he could cry and there's the slick shift-thrust of Dean's cock sliding in and out, wild and irregular. He hits Sam's prostate on occasion, and Sam shudders, prepared to do just about anything if he could just...

Dean's hand tightens around his erection, jerks it hard, once and his teeth find the junction of Sam's neck and shoulder and his other hand tightens around Sam's wrists.

"_Mine_," Dean hisses, right in Sam's ear, and Sam comes, just like that. Quiet and bright and strained, and Sam panting, breath fogging the tile.

Dean keeps stroking him, thrusting into him until it's painful. Sam tugs at his wrists again, wishes Dean would actually let go this time. On second thought, maybe that wouldn't be such a good idea. Sam isn't sure he'd be able to keep standing.

With a huff, Dean presses his face into Sam's neck, grunts out a swear and pulls himself free of Sam completely. He comes all over Sam's back and ass, spreading his seed across Sam's tanned skin. _Mine_, it says, _all mine_. And Sam would normally complain, but given the situation, he can't bring himself to mind. It's not like they don't both know it's true.

Both successfully sated, Dean's grip relaxes and then disappears completely. Sam's hands drop to his sides, numb and tired and he feels lips ghosting over his ear before his brother backs off entirely, stepping back beneath the spray of the shower head and tipping his head back to reveal his neck, stretched long and tantalizing.

Well, Sam thinks, rubbing at his wrists absently as he eliminates the distance between them, maybe Dean's singing in the shower isn't such a bad habit after all. But Tolkien? He still sucks.  



End file.
